The Story That Gets More Written Everyday
by fruitysenshi
Summary: This is not entirely fiction, nor entire fact. It comes from within my own mind as I see things, perhaps the most distorted place of all.
1. Chapter 1

When I was eight years old and loudly proclaimed to the world that "I ain't no lady and I'm never gonna be one," everyone should have known I was going to be trouble. Look out world, here comes the Weirdest Girl ever. My mom began my life in a puke princess bedroom, with dolls at a tea party plastering the walls and shades of paisley pink cursing my senses. I never liked that room. My dad was the more sensible one and introduced me to sarcasm, hockey, and video games, things that have managed to stay with me for a while at least. Every day my mom played Barbie's with me, and while I maintain the Barbie's did instill a love of fashion in me, I now realize they are really representations of a woman that will never be real. My dad watched the Mighty Ducks animated Disney series with me. I think maybe sometimes it would have been better if I just stayed in my small world inside my house with my parents, and never left. Sadly this was not to be the case, I attended a private school where I was said to have an IQ of 144 but I also caused various problems, such as running around the rooms like a hyperactive kangaroo and vandalizing the playground equipment. A pretty good haul for first grade. Second got even better when I began vandalizing things inside the school. I also stopped eating my lunch; simply because I wanted to read instead of eat the bologna sandwiches my mother packed me. Soon I was being home schooled, and in fourth grade I went back to normal school. I've never been the most articulate person in the world, so I stayed on the outer edges of that world, an outsider. I stayed in my small universe of books and the other kids started learning about soccer. I knew where I belonged and so did everyone else. And we were just fine.

Skip ahead six and a half years, and here's the story. I'm a sixteen-year-old girl with a mouth and mind for trouble, and a temper that is reminiscent of a brawling Irish man. This morning I wake up, stretching my body out under the warm covers of my bed. I got this bed two years ago when I couldn't take my 12-year-old mattress anymore. This bed is softer than anything, and since I have a fleece blanket and a comforter on top of and around me, I'm nestled in a little burrow that I don't have any intention of leaving unless I smell coffee or cinnamon rolls wafting up to my room, and since that almost never occurs within this castle, I guess I'm not getting up. Coffee is one of those things you have to truly experience to appreciate. I once tasted a Hazelnut Blend in a free sample from some little shop and I hated it. I missed out on coffee for four years after that until I tried Starbucks, and we've been having a love affair ever since. I love Pumpkin Spice Lattes and White Chocolate Mochas. The people who work in Starbucks are some of the people who can relate to me best, because working around coffee so much it's their life, not just an addiction like me. I roll over in my burrow and notice my cell phone blinking red. Means a missed call. I flip open my phone one handed and see it's a missed call from Mike. I groan inwardly, because it's an issue I don't want to deal with. Mike's been my best friend for the past nine months. He's a big bear of a person, but he had the sweetest heart. I don't think he'll ever grow up. But that's okay. He's one of those people that'll keep you young while still helping you keep your head out of your ass. The first time I ever met Mike he made me laugh so hard I cried, and we were instantly friends. We were each shopping with our own friends, and were thrown together by chance. He is one year older than me, so people wonder how we're best friends, but it's really not that hard. He taught me how to play Halo and Air soft, two valuable life lessons. Lately he's been kind of a jerk, what with being two faced to me and pretty much all our other friends. I have lately gotten a backbone with him, and I've been meaning to let loose. This morning I am in a particularly bitchy mood, what with me knowing he is a jerk and my personal need of caffeine not yet having been satisfied. I press CALL and he answers.

"Hello this is Michael how may I help you?"

I'm so sick of this answer; I've heard it a billion times before.

"You can not be such a dick. You've been acting so fucking two faced lately, and I don't want or need it. I have real friends who care about me and are real, and who don't piss me the fuck off!"

With that I slam my phone shut, and my bitchy mood deepens. I know staying in bed will only let this feeling fester, so I get up, cracking every bone in my body as I do. Mom says I'll get big joints from this and be ugly. Oh fucking well. The only thing to do at this point is shower. After a minute of scratching my head in my bathroom mirror, evaluating my pajama wearing self, I get in the shower and let the hot water pour over me. Ahhh. One day I know I'm going to escape this little place I call my home. I'm a city girl, through and through. I love walking everywhere. Once I saw a picture of Times Square in New York and I swear it was calling me to go there. In a city of thousands of people, there's no way you can be alone. If I lived in the city I would go do what I wanted when I wanted. I would have my art friends who I'd go to the Village with and study the works of Salvador Dali and Andy Warhol. Then I'd have my friends who would be fashion addicts like me, and would take me to Soho and shop till we dropped. And then there would be my best friends, who would keep me safe and love me no matter what and listen to my darkest secrets. They would take me on adventures from the Bronx to Manhattan, and we would never let each other go. Sometimes hot water is all you need to make you feel better.

Later on I get a phone call that will change my life. It's Monica. She got back from Honduras yesterday and I haven't seen her in a few months. Monica is one of the most interesting people I know I will ever meet, and I want to keep her as a friend, because I'd honestly be scared to have her as an enemy. She has short black bob hair, and she's Honduran, but she looks like an Egyptian queen. She changes her look from glam to punk rock every few days and has a heart of gold. Monica can change from happy to angry in a matter of seconds, so she's a lot like me, except I can control it better. We met when she came to a two-weeks-after-Halloween party I threw. Monica has never cared what anyone thinks of her. She is open about her life in every way, and makes you feel like you can tell her anything. She calls me her shoe-whore, which explains itself. I love shoes more than almost anything. They can pull a whole look together, and who doesn't love looking taller and skinnier? I have them in almost every color, and even a pair in plaid. They are all high-heeled-stilettos.

"Hello baby doll!" She says is her syrupy sweet voice. It's so nice you can't help but love talking to her. "We're going to go have fun tonight!"

"Allright...I need something to get my mind away…I just told Mike off."  
She let out a laugh, "Good for you girl! He is a jerk to you anyway! Just know I love you so much! Bye!"

Monica gave me my first confidence boost. She once told me I was the most amazing beautiful girl in the world, and that no one could ever take that away from me. And I started believing it.

My friend Jenni comes and gets me from my house to go to Monica's. Jenni is one of those people who you can't stay away from. She's that amazing. She takes care of everyone around her, and people sometimes call her Mom. Jenni is also called Bubbles. She has a little blue car that looks like a bubble. It's shiny and has penguin seat covers. Jenni's seen almost every tear I've cried in my life. She's also held me through most of them. She pulls up in my driveway, gets out of the bubble car, stands with legs apart, hands on her hips, and says "You look fucking gorgeous." I'm wearing a black top with skinny straps, a black and white plaid schoolgirl skirt, a fat vinyl black belt, and stilettos. My hair is wavy and curling around my face is big fat ringlets. This is my real hair, no styling needed, thank you very much. Jenni's wearing a cutoff denim mini skirt and a red low cut top with little heels. She looks like a punk princess with studs on her belt and jewelry.  
"I'm not gorgeous," I mutter, blushing bright red.  
"Yeah you are honey," she says getting back in the car, "don't deny the obvious."  
When we get to Monica's there's the usual squealing and clucking of is teenage girls. Monica's got a fab tan and looks gorgeous in an aquamarine shirtdress that makes me jealous of this exotic beauty I call one of my best friends. We're going to begin our night at the mall, and then go where the wind takes us. Thankfully we make a stop at Starbucks on the way, where I treat myself to the confection that is a Caramel Frappuchino with extra whipped cream. This brightens my mood enormously, and by the time we get to the mall we are in a girlish frenzy. The mall is the same as it is any Saturday around five o clock, beginning to fill with teenagers and members of every clique you can imagine. If I ever need to write a psychology paper on social habits, I'll come to the mall. For example, the 'punk' kids are the ones who hang out in Hot Topic all night and bang their heads to whatever glorious new band they've discovered, but if someone wearing an Abercrombie shirt walks in, it's over. Capeche? They just don't mix well. Unless you're like me and you do and say anything you want and don't give a rat's ass what anyone thinks. Then you're pretty much universally accepted.  
Hadley and a few of his friends are here. Hadley is a tall skinny person, but when you look close you see he is skinny wiry muscle. He has gauges in his ears and he is totally trying-to-be-bad-boy cute. Monica is his world and he means a lot to her, which is adorable. He's also got Kyle and Dan with him. I met Kyle about a week and a half ago at a fair. He's like Hadley except shorter in his build. His face is a bit like a weasel's, and he has an eyebrow ring. He has a fuck-the-world attitude that he means to be tough but comes off as funny. Dan is an interesting specimen. I met him a few months ago at a party at Monica's, and he has a girlfriend named Emily, who I hit it off pretty well with. He's cute, but I don't take claimed guys. It's a bad idea. He has big blue eyes with long black lashes you can get lost in and a crooked grin that gives him a rakish look. He doesn't really notice me, which is a good thing I guess because he could cause me some trouble. We're all walking around the mall, having a good time. In about two hours the girls and I decide to go get dinner, and the boys go to do whatever manly bonding exercise they want. When I was younger I wanted to be a boy until I found out what jerks they were and since then have remained solidly feminine. Just not in the things I do sometimes. Screaming amongst drunken men at a hockey game and getting erotic over a new Corvette aren't exactly normal things a Catholic schoolgirl should do. I think that's why they appeal to me so much. I don't care where we eat, as long as I can get something deep-fried and sweet at the same time. Jenni decides on Red Robin, which works because I can enjoy some good fried chicken and an icy cold peach daiquiri, which is virgin since we have an ugly girl waiter and not one of my cute waiter friends who would probably bring me a Brewski if I really wanted one. Me and the waiters there formed a bond one night last December when it was cold and snowy and I was in a bad mood and needed some dessert. My waiter could tell I was having a bad day and listened to all my problems as I shoved chocolate cake in my mouth in what I'm sure was a gross way. By the time the restaurant closed me and the crew there were good friends and we had a mutual understanding that I was no normal sixteen year old. It helps when the guys are cute. We're in the middle of a highly important conversation about the benefits of reading Cosmo when Monica's phone lights up with a text.

COME 2 LSL PRTY

Needless to say, we finish our food and dash out as quick as we can, leaving a small tip for the waitress, but not too small because who wants to be mean?


	2. Chapter 2

The Lake St. Louis parties are a big deal. If you're invited, it means you're accepted by the eighteen to twenty-two aged crowd. The parties happen every Friday and Saturday night from about ten till three in the morning in Matt and Bobby's garage. Matt and Bobby don't have last names, like Madonna and Prince, you just know them. The garage isn't attached to their house and they have a nice ping-pong table, stereo, couches, and other stuff in there. The parties always spill from the inside to the outside and anything can happen. When we get there Hadley, Dan and Kyle are in full tilt party madness, party-boy-ing people. I've never been before, so I don't know many people there. I know Monica, Jenni, Hadley, Kyle, Dan, and Joey. Joey is a tall buff person with a smile that always makes me think he's up to no good. He's always really quiet around me, and I wish he'd talk more. I'm walking around with Monica, being introduced to people, when someone catches my eye. A tall, tan boy comes up to me. He's got spiky dark blond hair, and he looks built and skinny at the same time. He has an earring and a big grin that shows off his nice white teeth.

"Hey, I'm Casey," he says, not stopping his grinning.  
"My name's Lanie," I said, not having much of anything else to say, because hey, I don't know him.  
"This is my best friend ever so don't you dare mess with this girl right here or there will be hell to pay Casey," says Monica while chuckling.   
"I can't promise anything," said Casey, and he walks away with his grin still plastered on his face. I like trouble. Especially if it's cute.

A long time ago when I was little I was under the shroud of Disney. I thought the girl always got the handsome prince along with some friends in an awesome adventure. Cinderella, Snow White, Aladdin, Beauty and the Beast. They all reinforce this idea. I now know that this is an entirely wrong idea now, and have seriously considered protesting this brainwashing of young girls to Disney. But it won't do any good, because we are all disillusioned at one point in our lives, and the people at Disney seem to have that happen a lot. If you're lucky these days, you're best friends won't backstab you, you will only develop an alcohol and not a crack addiction, and you won't get knocked up. Big difference. Thankfully, this morning after the party, I'm not under that impression, so when Monica calls me about Casey, I'm not going gaga. I'm actually sitting at my kitchen table, eating a bowl of cereal. Cereal makes up about two-thirds of my diet, because I am so picky about food. My absolute favorite food is cheesecake. The only place to get a perfect piece of cheesecake is at the Cheesecake Factory. The restaurant is big and airy, with huge cathedral windows. It's got Egyptian and Greek sculpting, but dark wood counters and tables. The bar is in front of the windows, and on a sunny day the sun shines through the bottles of Skyy and Captain Morgan to make amazing colors. And the food is better than anywhere else.

"Girl," says Monica in a cheery voice I can't believe she's mustering at ten in the morning, "Casey is completely taken by you."

"He met me for five minutes," I point out, "that's crazy."

"He followed you around a lot and asked everyone about you, including hounding me," she says matter-of-factly.

"What did you say," I ask, because Monica can say anything.

"I said you were you. You love music, you're a cheerleader, and you love me."

Yes, I am a cheerleader. Bet you couldn't tell, could you? I am a cheerleader for my high school, varsity squad thanks. And a competitive cheerleader for a privately owned gym. It tends to dominate a lot of what I do, but I love the way it keeps me fit. And I hate actual cheers, like GO SDHS is not my idea of a fun time. I used to be a stereotypical cheerleader. One day I walked into Hot Topic, and the guy working the counter instinctively knew I was a cheerleader. I believe he's slightly psychic, he says he knew when he saw me smile. We're pretty good friends nowadays. I used to call him Cherry Top because I didn't know his real name. His name is actually Sebastian, a name that I love and am considering using on one of my own children if I have any.

"Oh."

"You're going to hang out with him at Jenni's house tonight, and Kyle is going for Jenni."

I certainly have no protests after I question Monica about him, and I pass the next couple hours by scoring the Internet for new songs that I might like. I go to Jenni's around six, wearing a white tank top and brown cutoffs. I'm not really in a mood to look particularly awesome, and besides, some things are just better when you let them go.


	3. Chapter 3

So last night was interesting as can be. Casey and Kyle showed up after I did, and we hung out for a while doing whatever we wanted to. Then I walked to the park, and everyone followed me. The park is actually a big lump of playground equipment shoved into a corner of Jenni's subdivision, but great things happen there. Believe me. We were hanging out, not doing anything particular. Jenni and Kyle were doing their thing, aka making out vigorously. I was sitting on the equipment ledge, talking to Casey while he played on the monkey bars.

"Well, everyone is pretty cool. Kyle's a little chicken shit, but he's a good guy so he's nice."

"He tries to seem like a bad ass, but he doesn't do it very well," I commented. "People just need to be comfortable with themselves."

"Exactly," he said with a rakish grin, and with that he swung toward me and kissed me. It was an amazing kiss. Or four or five. It was sweet and minty and not slobbery or dry, it was a good kiss. This guy knew what he was doing, but it probably helped that I did too. I opened my eyes in mid-kiss and saw his long brown eyelashes.

My first kiss was when I was eleven years old in my next door neighbor's backyard. They had four boys, all of whom were crazy, and all of whom I loved like brothers; except the oldest. It was the day before my twelfth birthday and I liked the boy, James, a lot. I asked him to kiss me as a birthday present. After that event we did a lot of kissing, because he had a playhouse in his backyard where we sometimes watched the kids but mostly practiced tongue-wrestling techniques. He was a year younger than me in school, but the same age in actual years. In the 7 months that we had our "affair", I managed to have him fall completely in love with me, which he told me one day. And I didn't know any better. But I told him I never wanted to see him again after he insulted one of my best friends. That was when I realized my friends meant more to me than any love I could ever have.

There is only one problem with Casey. He's 20. And I'm sixteen. Oops. Guess we'll have to figure this out sometime. Today is not a day for thinking however. Today is a day for art. I put my graphite pencils in a bag, grab an eraser and my sketchbook, check my Ipod is charged, and head out the door. Today is a day for art. I walk out my garage door and breathe in the cool air. It's relaxing. I sit under my favorite weeping willow tree, put my headphones in my ears, and press play on my Ipod thumb pad. Music starts out slow and builds to a crescendo as I move my hands around my paper, creating un-discernable lines and shapes. The music I listen to is always a big surprise to people. I'm not sure why though. My favorite music is bluesy scat music, like Louie Prima and Duke Ellington and Billie Holiday. When most people meet me they assume I am a rocker only girl. Wrong. I like all music that has some kind of point. Rock, rap, even some country. I love it all. Music is a piece of an emotion saved onto hardware.

I'm listening to a band called Breaking Benjamin. I synced all their songs onto my Ipod a few days ago and the deep gravely voices mixed with an awesome bass line have made me realize they are not music to be missed. The song Diary of Jane is playing as I sketch madly, and as the song comes down from the bass line's best moment a drop of water falls onto my sketch, blurring the close up of an eye with longs lashes. I look up, because it's not raining, and then I realize that it's coming from my cheeks, and that I'm sobbing, only I couldn't hear it because of how loud my music was.


End file.
